


All I Want for Christmas

by Papillon87



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky likes the Christmas lights, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE, PTSD, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve and Bucky decorating the Christmas tree, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28260999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillon87/pseuds/Papillon87
Summary: ‘What happened to your I-don’t-believe-in-Christmas mood?'Steve carefully props the tree against the wall. ‘ I’ve told you I don’t believe in God, Buck. Not anymore. But I like the smell. I missed it; thought we could - that we could just make it look like Christmas this year. With you here and all.’
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlitdrive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitdrive/gifts).



> This fic was not supposed to happen; between work, Christmas baking and decorating, I really shouldn't have been writing - but here we are.
> 
> Thank you, moonlitdrive, for inspiration I hope you'll like it :-))
> 
> All mistakes and inaccuracies are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
> ..........................

Steve watches the green beauty in front of him. ‘This one is perfect.’

‘Great choice, sir.’

The man offers him a polite smile and accepts the money, not blinking at the bundle of cash Steve hands over.

It is hard for him to get used to the ‘plastic money,’ that’s why he always carries some cash on him. Sam says he is just a disaster waiting to get mugged but Sam always frets about things that Steve considers funny.

He watches the man’s hands moving with practiced ease as he wraps the fir in a fine layer of netting. ‘Do you need help getting it to the car?’

‘Thanks. I think I will be fine.’

This is the moment where Steve should probably be careful and make more effort to blend in. To carry a massive tree to the car park on his own is not the wisest choice if he is to stay incognito – but he doesn’t care.

He hefts the fir on his shoulder and exits with a quick smile, before anyone in the vicinity puts two and two together and starts taking pictures.

No need for #CaptainChristmas and a grainy picture of him on Twitter today.

A quick glance at his phone tells him that he has been gone for long enough and Bucky will be most likely awake by now. Steve did leave him a slightly ambiguous note by the bed when he was leaving - something about getting breakfast – so everything should be ok. There is that scratchy feeling at the back of his head, however, that always persists there when Steve leaves Bucky alone for too long.

Everything will be fine.

The door on his pick-up makes a screeching noise as he slams it shut, hesitating for a second.

The queue at Nathan’s Deli is not too long. He could get breakfast, actually.

Five minutes later, he drops the paper bag on the passenger seat and starts the engine.

Everything will be fine; he will be there. Five more minutes and he will be at home.

The tyres screech a little as he pulls into the last free bay in front of an unassuming brownstone.

Thank goodness for small mercies.

‘Mr Rogers, so nice to see you.’

Mrs Lubinski, her wrinkled face beaming, holds the door as she takes in the green monster in Steve’s arms. ‘That is a lovely one you have there.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Lubinski. How are you?’

The tree barely fits through the main door and Mrs Lubinski giggles with girlish glee as he grunts, trying to navigate the awkward bend.

‘Have a merry Christmas, Mr Rogers.’

‘You too, Mrs Lubinski.’

The old lady’s cheeks flush with the tiniest hint of pink at Steve’s polite smile.

‘Give my love to Mr Black; I hope he is well.’

‘I sure will.’

Steve makes a hasty retreat toward the staircase, before the she has a chance to quiz him about James Black - a fellow soldier, an old friend supposedly wounded in Afghanistan, who is staying with him whilst recovering - a story Steve spun for the benefit of his neighbours when Bucky more or less moved in three months ago.

In front of their door on the third floor, he doesn’t make the mistake of knocking. Bucky still can't handle sudden noises; Steve is glad that, two weeks ago, he finally agreed not to walk around the apartment armed – it’s a relief to know there is no more danger of Bucky pulling a gun on everyone who slams the door shut a little too loudly.

Steve takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text to alert Bucky that he is coming. When the screen lights up with Bucky’s reply, he exhales in relief.

All is well. He sticks the key in the lock and the door swings open.

Bucky is standing in the hallway, blinking slowly, an imprint of a pillow still visible on his cheek.

‘I’ve got bagels from Nathan’s,’ Steve smiles and something in his chest unravels when Bucky smiles back.

‘Cream cheese or lox?’

‘Two of each and two with everything; you can pick.’

It is then that Bucky’s eyes register the tree propped in the corner next to the door.

His eyes widen a fraction. ‘Oh my god, Steve.’

Steve thrusts the bagels into Bucky’s hands and shrugs. ‘I don’t know what happened this morning. I just had to have it.’

Bucky doesn’t respond, merely steps back and lets Steve drag the green beast inside.

He follows Steve into the living room, his bare feet making soft slapping noise on the floor. ‘What happened to your I-don’t-believe-in-Christmas mood?’

There is no sarcasm in Bucky’s voice; he reserves that for people who treat him like someone who is to be pitied. Steve has learned his lesson very early on, Sam a little later. Natasha never babies anyone and Bucky was no exception; if anything, Steve had to prevent them from killing each other in the early days.

Right now, Bucky sounds soft and mildly interested, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him, despite being one o’clock in the afternoon.

Bucky barely sleeps at night. The old nightmares are difficult to shift; the ghosts are hard to dispel, no matter how many weeks, how many months have passed since he has been back.

Steve took two weeks off for Christmas, not being shy about milking his status this time. Maybe enough sleep, even if it’s during the day, will bring some colour back to Bucky’s hollowed cheeks and some peace into his haunted gaze.

He carefully props the tree against the wall. ‘ I’ve told you I don’t believe in God, Buck. Not anymore. But I like the smell. I missed it; thought we could - that we could just make it look like Christmas this year. With you here and all.’

Bucky is silent. The blue of his eyes becomes bluer, more shiny, more liquid.

  
He steps closer and cups Steve’s cheek. ‘Yeah, I guess we can do that, Steve.’

  
Steve leans into his hand and closes his eyes for a moment. He prays he doesn’t start crying.

……………………

They start the coffee maker and demolish the bagels first. After that, Steve excavates the stand from underneath a heap of old camping equipment that Sam left behind in summer and forgot to claim back.

Bucky is revitalised, engaged; it’s difficult to tell whether it’s down to the double espresso he’s just had or because of the smell of resin that now fills the apartment. Steve doesn’t say anything, happy to savour the moment.

When the tree is finally up, claiming the entire corner of the living room, they both sit down on the sofa and exhale with relief.

Bucky nudges him in the ribs. ‘You are such a perfectionist, Cap. I mean I know you are – look at your damn cushions on the sofa, all lined up so neatly - I just didn’t realise it would extend to Christmas trees as well.’

Steve grins into Bucky’s face, feeling almost giddy. ‘Come on, Buck. It can't be wonky; it would bother me the whole Christmas.’

Bucky leans over and kisses Steve on the cheek. ‘Whatever. You are a perfectionist, admit it.’

Steve leans his forehead against Bucky’s. ‘Fine. I am a perfectionist. Happy?’

‘Happy,’ Bucky stands up. ‘Are we gonna decorate it now?’

The box sits at the very top shelf in the closet. Steve carefully brings it down and wipes off the layer of dust that has gathered on the lid.

Bucky, sitting on the sofa, watches him kneeling down next to the Christmas tree and opening it. ‘Are these-‘

Steve pulls out the first set of baubles, still in its original packaging. ‘I bought them that first year – when I came back – but in the end I just – I couldn’t.’

He holds the cheerful red box in his lap for a brief moment. ‘It seemed so pointless, Bucky.’

Bucky’s face changes. He sets down his third mug of coffee and pads over.

He crouches down and peers into the box. ‘They look nice, Steve. They look mighty nice.’

His hand rests on the small of Steve’s back, a reassuring presence, and Steve burns with shame. He should be the one taking care of Bucky; he should be the strong one, not the other way round.

With his fine radar for Steve’s moods – even after so much, after all the years of ice and emptiness – Bucky lifts his head and smirks. ‘Come on, you are the one with an artistic eye. Make it look pretty.’

The air around them grows lighter. Steve huffs with suppressed laughter but doesn’t argue. He rummages in the box for the lights. ‘These first. Might not be candles like we used to have but they will look nice; you’ll see. Last year, I helped Pepper with decorating. She said to start with the lights, always. Otherwise everything gets tangled up.’

They struggle a little with the long cord. Steve, having been crowned the perfectionist of the house, lives up to the expectations and goes and turns off the living room lights several times to check if they are getting the symmetry right. After the third attempt, Bucky doesn’t even pretend not to laugh anymore and Steve’s heart soars at the sound.

‘Stevie,’ Bucky manages to pull him away from the tree. ‘Steve. Listen. It looks fine as it is. Stop fretting.’

‘Fine,’ attempting to pout like a stroppy toddler just to see Bucky laugh one more time, Steve finally sits down next to the box with ornaments. ‘I give up. If you say it’s fine it’s fine. We need to hang up these now.’

‘Oh no,’ Bucky gives him a sideways look and saunters back to the sofa. He sits down and leans back with a grin. ‘You will be hanging them up. I will be supervising.’

Steve snorts. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Go on, Captain Rogers,’ the grin on Bucky’s face grows a fraction wicked. ‘Show me how it’s done.’

Steve looks over his shoulder, giving him a stern look. ‘You are asking for it, _James.’_

‘Oh. Am I now?’

Bucky looks so beautiful, sprawled on the sofa, his eyes glinting with mischief, his smile relaxed.

Steve absentmindedly hangs up the first bauble, a red one with Santa’s face painted on it. There is a different kind of sparkle in Bucky’s eyes now, one that has very little to do with Christmas.

‘I really do think you are asking for it, _Sergeant Barnes.’_

Bucky’s eyes are holding his when he crosses the room and leans down for a kiss.

‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ Bucky laughs a little into Steve’s mouth, a pleased, breathy sound. ‘You have a job to do.’

Steve slides his hand into Bucky’s hair, cradles the nape of his neck. ‘The job can wait.’

With an evil gleam in his eyes, Bucky pulls back. ‘No reward until the job is done, Steve.’

He kisses Steve one more time and pushes lightly against his chest. ‘Go. As your Christmas supervisor, I have to say I am not impressed so far.’

Steve guffaws but steps back nevertheless. ‘You are cruel.’

Bucky just smiles, eyes crinkling, and curls up on the sofa again.

Despite suddenly wanting to have the decorating bit over and done with – surely activities of the more carnal kind are as good as any when it comes to getting into the festive spirit – eventually Steve gets caught up in the process. He has almost forgotten how much fun it can be, making sure that there is just the right amount of space between two ornaments, that the colours match, judging how much tinsel is still permitted without making the overall feel too tacky. He turns to Bucky from time to time, asking for a second opinion, or simply basking in the sight of him being there. Bucky smiles, more often than not, without saying much, head slumped against the headrest, a blanket over his shoulders. The energy seems to have seeped out of him but Steve knows the pattern by now, the slumps, the return of bone-deep tiredness, sudden, no warning given.

He keeps talking nevertheless, giving a running commentary as he fixes the big star on top. When he jumps down from a chair, he surveys his handiwork with a contented sigh.

‘So, all done and dusted. What do you think?’

When he turns around, Bucky is asleep, head sunk low, hands still clutching the half-empty coffee mug.

Steve gently takes the mug out of Bucky’s hands and wraps a blanket around him more tightly. He lingers for a moment, deliberating whether he should help him into a more comfortable position but in the end he decides against it. Bucky would probably wake up and nothing is worth waking Bucky up once he has finally managed to fall asleep.

The battle with insomnia is a marathon and Steve is not sure that they are making much progress. The nightmares are still regular visitors, leaving Bucky shivering and bathed in cold sweat every time Steve shakes him awake. He has stopped counting how many times Bucky elbowed him in the ribs or kicked him when he started thrashing in the middle of the night, shouting in Russian or worse, begging.

There is no falling back to sleep after those, not for Bucky at any rate. He goes and makes himself a cup of tea, takes it to bed and sits there, unmoving, until Steve’s eyes fall shut.

After hovering above him a little uncertainly, Steve retreats into the kitchen. He can make a head start on dinner. Getting enough calories into them both is also important.

He is not a great cook, he admits that without any shame. When Bucky has a good day, he cooks for them both, wheeling out his mother’s recipes or something he has found on YouTube and Steve feels choked up with memories of their old life, the evenings in their old place in Red Hook, both of them together in the tiny kitchen, Bucky over the stove and Steven with a sketchbook in front of him, trying to capture the moment.

Bucky doesn’t remember almost any of it but the cooking comes naturally, as if on autopilot. Steve is grateful, not just for the food, but also for the occasional flashback these culinary experiments bring with them – did we have a chequered tablecloth Steve, white and red, wasn’t it - and he encourages Bucky by bringing big slabs of meat and bags full of fresh vegetables. He wolfs down Bucky’s casseroles and stews, and praises him to the point of Bucky’s cheeks growing faintly pink.

‘What’s for dinner?’

Steve turns around.

Bucky is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling. ‘It smells real nice.’

Steve grins a little sheepishly. ‘It’s just pizza in the oven but I’m making mulled wine.’

‘Ooh,’ Bucky comes closer and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist. He leans over the pot simmering on the stove and inhales the aroma of cloves, orange peels and cinnamon. ‘Best Christmas Eve meal ever.’

They don’t bother to eat at the dinner table and sit on the sofa instead, balancing the plates on their knees, the steaming mugs in front of them on the coffee table.

The TV is on, with some nondescript Christmas movie, but Bucky is not paying attention. He is chewing on his pizza, a faraway look on his face.

‘Are you alright, Buck?’ Steve puts a hand on his arm, lightly, as not to startle him.

Bucky swallows audibly, looking ahead but not really looking at anything. ‘I think - We had them tiny candles, with holders like clothes pegs. I- I remember.’

Steve almost drops the slice of pizza he is holding.

‘Do you remember anything else, Buck?’ he asks carefully.

‘Presents,’ Bucky’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘Presents under the Christmas tree. Me and- and my sister unwrapping them. I got new gloves. And I made a picture for Ma. Well, you sort of did because I asked you for help.’

Steve envelops him in his arms and chuckles into his hair. ‘I do remember. I had to make it look sort of ugly – just a little bit - otherwise your Ma would have known right away that I drew it.’

‘She still guessed.’

After that, they sit in silence. Bucky reaches for his mulled wine and hands the other mug to Steve. He sips slowly, eyes glued to the TV, leaning into Steve’s side, soft and pliant. Steve doesn’t dare to move because of how nice it feels.

Once all mulled wine is gone, Bucky’s weight begins to shift slightly, growing heavier against Steve’s shoulder.

He noses at the crown of Bucky’s head. ‘Are you tired, Bucky? Should we go to bed?’

Bucky rubs his face against Steve’s arm. ‘Wanna stay here. Looks nice, the tree. All the lights.’

Something crosses Steve’s mind, a flash of an idea. ‘We could sleep here tonight if you want.’

Bucky looks up, doubtful. ‘Not sure how we would both fit on the sofa, Steve. You kinda bulked up lately, you know.’

His mouth lifts up in a half-grin and Steve chuckles. He stands up, pulling Bucky to his feet.

‘I have an idea. It will be perfect. Help me push the sofa to the right.’

They move the sofa into the corner and Steve measures the distance with his eyes. ‘Yeah, that should do. Come.’

In the bedroom, Steve peels off the fitted sheet and bundles all the blankets and pillows into it. He drops everything unceremoniously on the floor, then turns back to the bed. ‘Give me a hand with the mattress, Buck, will you?’

They haul it through the door and into the living room. Bucky’s face brightens as they lower it down right next to the Christmas tree and push it against the wall. ‘Smart. That was a smart idea, Steve.’

They bring the bedding and make an improvised headboard with the sofa cushions propped against the wall.

Steve gives the pillows a final plumping up, then lies down and pats the spot next to him. ‘Time for bed, Buck.’

Bucky smiles shyly and climbs under the blanket, settling against his chest, watching the Christmas tree. ‘Wow. It-’

‘What?’

He feels Bucky smile into his shoulder. ‘I don’t know. Feels a little weird.’

‘And? Who’s here to tell us what to do?’ Steve buries his face in Bucky’s hair.

They lie in silence for a bit, then Steve kicks off the blanket. ‘One more thing.’

He gets up and switches off the lights in the room. The lit-up Christmas tree glows in the dark like a magical creature. Underneath, Bucky’s eyes are reflecting the soft yellow glow and Steve wishes – wants, begs – for the moment to last.

Then Bucky pats the spot beside him, mirroring Steve’s movement with a hint of a cheeky smile and Steve breaks out of his reverie and slides into the soft warmth next to him.

‘Still weird, Buck?’

His arms are around Bucky, looking for tension, for the ghosts but he finds none. He sighs into Bucky’s hair, holding him close. ‘How does it feel now?’

Bucky chuckles, his voice soft around the edges again, drowsy. ‘Vastly improved, I would say.’

Steve props himself on one elbow, looking at the perfection of Bucky’s dark hair against the white of the cushion. ‘I think this will be the best Christmas ever, Buck. When we wake up, you will be my present. Right here, under the tree.’

There is a change to Bucky’s languid smile as he pulls Steve down, pressing his mouth to his ear. ‘It’s past midnight, Stevie.’

Steve pushes a lock of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. ‘Merry Christmas, Buck.’

They hug, silently, because Steve is not that great with words, not in the big moments – and this one somehow feels big, even if it’s hard to pinpoint why – and Bucky lies there clinging to him, breathing and alive, and so wonderfully warm that Steve almost starts praying from sheer gratitude to have him back. The he remembers that God has no right to exist after all that happened to Bucky and he presses him against his chest with all his might, throat constricting - I can't lose you I can't lose you again I can't I can't I can't-

‘Steve,’ underneath him, Bucky is straining. ‘You’re crushing me.’

‘Oh,’ Steve releases his almost chokehold, face burning. ‘Sorry, Buck, I just-‘

Bucky knows. He throws one look at Steve’s face and he knows. He reaches for Steven’s cheek, slowly pressing his right hand against it.

‘Listen, you brickhouse,’ his smile slowly widens. ‘I was thinking. Seeing that it’s Christmas Day already, I think that instead of trying to strangle me to death, you could unwrap your present now. Just an idea, is all.’

Steve stills. There is absolutely no doubt about what Bucky means.

‘You sure, Buck? You sure?’

This time, Bucky knows too. He knows that Steve has been careful; he has been treating Bucky like the most precious thing, valuable and too fragile to touch.

It’s been a fine line to walk those past few months. Steve sort of understands Bucky going into the soldier mode after every loud noise - but that’s not the worst part, no; the thing that Steve can't bear to watch is how Bucky flinches whenever someone touches him without warning. Steve knows the rules by now – don’t approach from the back, don’t crowd him in a corner, let him initiate the contact – but his heart bleeds every time someone else forgets for a moment and the haunted look flashes across Bucky’s face – naked in its vulnerability, broken into thousand small pieces.

With Steve, Bucky is not afraid of closeness – the way Bucky melts into him when they hug makes Steve want to weep sometimes – but they are good days and there are bad days, despite all the progress.

Some nights, there is hunger in Bucky’s kisses, desperation that Steve himself knows well, borne out of awe - how are we even here, what if this isn’t real - those nights feel like a fever dream in which Bucky breaks Steve apart with his ravenous hands and his starved mouth and then makes him whole again.

Tonight lacks the ferocity; Bucky is soft and pliant next to him but Steve is still careful. He kisses Bucky but looks for signs of the shutters going down in Bucky’s eyes, for the wall that sometimes sprouts between them, in the middle of nowhere.

He has learned that Bucky struggles to say no. If he gets overwhelmed he freezes, pulls inwards, and lets things happen. Steve shudders at the thought that he would be the one, even inadvertently, who would do things to Bucky.

He gently buries his hands into Bucky’s hair. ‘You sure, Buck?’

‘Never been more sure in my life.’

The lights are reflected in Bucky’s metal arm, as he reaches up. He looks beautiful.

‘Merry Christmas, Stevie.’

The crook of Bucky’s neck smells achingly familiar when he buries his face in it.

‘Merry Christmas, Buck.’

………………………..

The lit-up Christmas tree is keeping Steve awake. Bucky fell asleep the moment he slid off him, supersoldier or not, and is now curled up in the corner of the mattress, his shoulder almost touching the lowest branches. There is a little ornament right above his head, a delicate glass snowflake, and something in the contrast of Bucky’s dark head and the gleaming whiteness makes Steve’s chest tighten.

He slips away, careful and quiet, and reaches for his sketchbook on the coffee table.

The picture doesn’t take long; just a quick outline of a bare shoulder peeking from underneath a tangle of blankets, Bucky’s hair, falling over his cheek, the ornament. Bucky’s face, peaceful.

He adds a hint of the branch above and one twinkling night. No symbolism, no star guiding the three wise men. Just a light – and Bucky underneath, dreaming.

………………………..

The moment Natasha’s text lights up on the screen, he wakes up.

Feeling slightly disoriented, he tiptoes to the door, grateful that Bucky’s even breathing has not changed, that he is still asleep.

‘Hey,’ Natasha slips through the door but stills the moment she sees Steve pressing a finger to his lips.

Her hand moves to the holster under her jacket – party dress or not – when she looks over his shoulder and sees the mattress on the living room floor.

‘What happened?’ she whispers, eyes alert. ‘Was there an attack in the night, did you have to move away from the window-‘

‘Calm down,’ Steve is still whispering as he pulls her towards the kitchen. Once inside, he closes the door that separates it from the living room. Thank goodness he never liked those modern open plan living spaces.

‘Nothing happened,’ he smiles and some of the lightness he feels must seep into Natasha’s tense stance because she relaxes marginally. ‘Nothing happened. Bucky liked the Christmas lights so we slept in the living room.’

‘Christ,’ Natasha runs a weary head over her forehead. ‘Warn me next time. You’ve confused the hell out of me.’

Steve laughs, then frowns a little. ‘What are you doing here so early?’

‘Early?’ Natasha arches an eyebrow. ‘It’s half past eleven. Merry Christmas, by the way.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

Steve feels a little foolish – is it really that late? He looks through the glass pane into the living room where the blackout curtains and Christmas lights belie the lateness of hour. Bucky remains the same tightly curled-up ball underneath the blankets and then it hits him.

‘Oh my god,’ he rubs his face with his hands, as if trying to wake up. ‘Oh my god.’

‘What?’

It feels like a boulder rolling off Steve’s chest. ‘He slept through, Nat. He slept the whole night – god, I don’t even know – nine hours? Ten hours? No nightmares, no nothing, just slept. Oh my god, I-‘

‘Oh, Steve.’ Natasha’s face softens. ‘I’m so glad, I’m so so glad.’

Nothing else needs to be said. Natasha knows about Bucky’s nightmares, even if they both never mention them in front of each other. But the way she has asked about Bucky’s sleep during those first tense days, her offhand remarks to Steve – keep a nightlight in the bedroom, don’t let him sleep in the dark, make sure the room is not too cold – her words tell Steve that she knows a thing or two about nightmares reaching its freezing fingers all the way from Siberia.

If this were Sam, he would be probably hugging Steve right now. Natasha gives his arm a squeeze - pretty much the only touch he can get from her, apart from when they are trying to beat each other’s ass in the gym – and beckons him back to the hallway.

‘I brought breakfast. Left it at the door when I thought you were under siege or something, with your stupid mattress.’

Steve chuckles and picks up a sizeable bag, peering inside. Bread, a selection of cheeses, pryaniki for Bucky – he smiles, touched that she remembers his love for the Russian spiced tea cakes – and a jar of blackberry jam.

‘Coffee is on you.’

Steve turns on the coffee maker and watches her unloading the contents of the bag on the kitchen worktop. The shimmer of her short black dress looks at odds with the still life she is creating with the slabs of Stilton and Cheddar, the jam gleaming like a dark jewel in the jar and the golden crust of the long baguette.

Steve is pleased to see Natasha, of course he is, but something doesn’t quite add up. ‘Why are you all dressed up? And why are you here? We did say we are having a quiet Christmas – nothing personal, just-‘

Natasha pauses. She leans back against the kitchen counter, legs in black stiletto boots crossed at the ankles. ‘Tony has sent me.’

Steve swallows. ‘But we did send our apologies ages ago-‘

‘He doesn’t mean the big party tonight,’ Natasha interrupts him smoothly. ‘He understands you can't be there, not with Barnes being back not being public knowledge yet – he means the family dinner before that.’

‘Oh.’

This is an olive branch; this is a big olive fucking tree, if he ever sees one. ‘Oh.’

The truce with Tony is a fragile thing, has been fragile since the very beginning – the ghosts of Tony’s parents a dark presence every time Bucky and Tony are in one room together – but today’s gesture takes Steve’s breath away.

‘He says you both should get your asses over there before he changes his mind. No weapons permitted but dinner jackets optional.’

‘Who is talking about dinner jackets?’

Bucky shuffles into the kitchen, dressed only in his boxer shorts, eyes still half-closed. There is a shadow of a bruise on his collarbone and Steve almost jumps up to bring him a t-shirt to put on but refrains. No point; Natasha’s sharp eyes have checked and catalogued every minute detail of Bucky’s body by now, from the dark circles under his eyes to the new hint of colour in his cheeks after a good night’s sleep.

‘Tasha,’ Bucky gives her a nod.

‘Morning, James.’

She respects that ‘Bucky’ is something only people who knew him back then can say, back when he was still Bucky, and nothing more. Which, by now, is only Steve and Peggy.

Bucky gives a relaxed grin – it’s a good morning, thinks Steve with a relief – and aims straight for the coffee maker. ‘I've heard something about dinner jackets.’

‘And you’ve heard correctly. Three o’clock at Tony’s. Only family – Bruce, me, Clint-‘

‘Clint wouldn’t go without his family; it’s Christmas.’

‘Oh,’ Natasha answers breezily. ‘ His wife and kids are gonna be there too. Just for the family thing, not the party afterwards.’

Bucky shrinks a little. ‘I'm not sure-‘

Steve wraps his arm around his shoulders – slowly, carefully, watching for Bucky’s reaction - and turns to Natasha. ‘Will you give us a minute?’

‘Yeah,’ she shrugs and takes a sip from her coffee. ‘Sure.’

He steers Bucky out of the kitchen, all the way into their bedroom, but doesn’t close the door. Bucky is already tense, no point making him feel like a trapped animal.

The bed looks a little forlorn, without the mattress and the usual mess of blankets.

Steve lets go and steps back a little, giving Bucky more space. He leans against the windowsill. ‘Tony is reaching out. In his own way.’

Bucky is wringing his fingers; his eyes look tortured. ‘I know, Steve, I know that. But - you know I can't trust myself. And with kids there - If something happened-‘

‘I’m gonna be there, and Nat. We will watch you like hawks.’ Steve laughs a little at the unintended pun. ‘I’m sure he will too.’

‘Christ,’ Bucky runs a shaky hand over his forehead. ‘Does he even know, did he agree to this?’

‘I can find out,’ offers Steve cautiously. ‘Do you want me to? Would that make a difference if he was ok with it?’

Bucky moves closer to the window and stays still for a long time, watching the scenery below, the life passing by.

Finally, he peels his eyes away. ‘Yes, it probably would. Can you find out? Please.’

Steve finds Natasha at the kitchen table, chewing at the bread. ‘How is it going?’

‘He is scared because of the kids being around. Told me to find out if Clint knew about us coming.’

‘He knows,’ Natasha takes another sip of her coffee. ‘Talked to me about it. Said that we all deserve second chances, and Bucky probably the most of us all.’

‘Oh,’ Steve feels awashed with gratitude – and something more, something that makes him choke up a little.

‘He and Tony also told me,’ Natasha fixes him with an unblinking stare, ‘to come armed. Because of the kids. Just as a precaution, just to – stop him if needed. Not to-‘

‘I know,’ interrupts her Steve. ‘I completely understand. But I will tell him that. Wouldn’t feel great going behind his back.’

‘I’ve got no problem with that,’ Natasha smirks. She peels off her short jacket and shows Steve a hint of the holster. ‘Also a knife in my boot. I’m probably incredibly stupid for showing you this but-‘

‘No,’ Steve leans closer and takes her hand. She stiffens a little at him barging into her personal space but holds her own. ‘Thank you. This means a lot.’

She flashes him a short, embarrassed smile and wriggles her hand free. ‘No problem; you know how it is, us Russians need to help each other.’

Steve laughs. ‘I’m going to talk to him.’

Bucky has backed away into the corner but is still watching the street below. He is eerily quiet. In moments like this Steve's heart goes a little cold. He sees the Winter Soldier, still in there somewhere, lurking underneath.

‘Buck?’ he whispers softly and is relieved when Bucky turns to look at him, face smoothing out into something less assassin-like, more Bucky.

‘Clint knows and is fine with it,’ he says hurriedly, eager to get the words out before Bucky perhaps closes off and refuses to go. ‘Clint has also talked with Tony and Natasha will be armed – just as a precaution. Would you be ok with that?’

Bucky chuckles a little darkly but there is no true bitterness in it. ‘I was wondering why the holster. And the knife.’

‘Nothing escapes you, right?’

‘I guess not.’

They watch each other for a while, the silence stretching like a taut string.

‘Fine,’ Bucky exhales, as if he was holding his breath the whole time. ‘Let’s go.’

They hug, Steve feeling the tension bleed out of Bucky’s body as he holds him close. ‘I’ll be there, Buck. I will have your back.’

‘I know, Stevie,’ Bucky’s words are muffled by Steve's hair. ‘You always have. Thank you.’

Back in the kitchen, Natasha smiles at Bucky and motion towards a little bowl where she has emptied the packet of priyanki. She hands him a mug of coffee. ‘Merry Christmas, James.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ Bucky grins back and takes one cake. They watch him sinking his teeth into it, slowly, savouring the moment. The thin sugary coating cracks softly and Bucky gives an almost orgasmic sound when he pops it whole into his mouth.

‘Jeez, Barnes,’ Natasha rolls his eyes. ‘Please tells Steve to wreck you more next time. Clearly you didn’t have enough last night when a cookie does this to you.’

Steve’s face turns hot. Not because of Natasha’s words but at the sight of Bucky, eyes closed, looking as if he was about to come.

‘It’s the nutmeg,’ Bucky groans with his mouth full. ‘Bliss.’

‘Nah,’ Natasha takes one and bites into it, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s the cloves.’

Steve clears his throat. ‘So – Bucky said he was ok to come.’

‘Great.’ Natasha has the grace to finish the cake without any questionable sounds and doesn’t take another. ‘You two better eat then because we don’t have that much time anymore. And we need to make sure Captain Rogers here doesn’t look like a grandad, dressed in something that he has chosen himself.’

‘Oh no,’ Steve groans and buries his head in his hands. ‘Will you two make me go through my entire wardrobe?’

Bucky and Natasha exchange a conspiratory grin. ‘Oh yes, we will.’

‘I’ve heard,’ Natasha says evenly, ‘that he possesses a pair of skinny jeans. Is it true? I wonder how his ass would look in those.’

‘He does,’ Bucky deadpans, ignoring Steve’s protesting squeak. ‘But it's not the ass; it's the thighs that do it for me.’

‘Natasha narrows her eyes. ‘Perfect. Merry Christmas to us.’


End file.
